Dying is easy, living is hard
by flashwitch
Summary: Clint thought it was bad when Coulson was dead. It's so much worse now he's alive again.
1. Chapter 1

**Because apparently I can't write two fluff stories in a row, here's some angst with a side of pheels. **

* * *

Before Coulson came back from the dead, Barton had been coping. Okay, so he hadn't been coping _well_, but he _had _been coping. He spent weeks convincing himself that it hadn't been his fault. That Loki would have found a way even if Clint hadn't told him how to get out of the cage, how to get on the Helicarrier, how Coulson was to be feared...

But Coulson was dead, and that was awful, terrible, horrible, because Coulson and Natasha were everything to Clint. Coulson was dead. And Natasha? She was falling apart. He'd pinked her during their last sparring match. He hadn't managed that in years. And he knew she wasn't sleeping. But then, neither was he.

At least while Coulson was dead, he wasn't suffering. Clint had looked it up, and recovery from that sort of chest wound... long and painful. Coulson was at rest. He was at peace.

* * *

But now Coulson was alive. And that was...Clint didn't know what to do with that. He'd been in a coma, and then recovering in hospital for three months. And Fury didn't see fit to tell anyone.

"I didn't want you to worry about him. I wanted to wait until I was sure to tell you."

Tony had immediately made Coulson move into the Tower with them. Which was honestly the last thing Clint needed. It was a lot harder to avoid the man when you're living with him.

It was worse when they did run into each other, because Coulson wasn't... he didn't... he wasn't anything. They didn't banter. They didn't even talk to each other. Clint just got the 'bland agent' face. He hadn't got the 'bland agent' face since he was a junior agent. He couldn't even look Coulson in the eye.

It was okay when they were on missions, because Coulson wasn't allowed on missions yet. He was still recovering. But the rest of the time Coulson was _right there _and Clint was staring his guilt right in the eye. He wanted to apologize, but he'd spent so much time trying to convince himself it wasn't his fault, he wasn't sure how. Besides, apologising would entail actually talking to Coulson, and Clint wasn't sure he could do that. The last time he'd talked to Coulson, really talked to him, the conversation had been with a stone at Arlington.

Coulson had been dead for three months. He'd only been alive for two weeks. Is it any wonder Clint was having difficulty?


	2. Chapter 2

It all came to a head, of course. And it was mostly Natasha's fault. Clint wasn't sure whether to kiss her or hit her.

"Clint!"

He shot upright in bed. Then he looked around, confused, and wiped sleep from his eyes.

"Tasha? That you?"

"I need you to come to the gym. I... overestimated."

That had him on his feet and out the door. He didn't even pause to pull on boots or pants or anything (he was wearing grey cotton boxers and a black t shirt though. He liked to sleep semi-ready). The last time Tasha 'overestimated', she'd ended up in the infirmary with a broken collar bone. Tasha's 'overestimated' was everyone else's 'oh fuck, I've just done myself a pretty terrible trauma, I might even die'. But God forbid Tasha ever said she needed something.

* * *

He raced to the gym, which was two floors below him, and ran in, looking around to try and find what was wrong. It took him two turns about the room to realise Natasha wasn't there.

Coulson was.

"Agent Barton."

"Oh, screw this." Clint span around and ran back to the door, but it wouldn't open for him. He felt very much like a trapped animal. It was strangely reminiscent of his first meeting with Coulson. When he realised the hitting the door and shouting at JARVIS wasn't going to work, he let his hands drop to his sides and let his head fall forwards against the door.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there. Coulson didn't say anything, though. Which bothered Clint. He hated silence. Coulson knew this. He was trying to force Clint to speak first. Well, Clint wasn't going to give him the satisfaction, and they both knew that Clint could out-stubborn Coulson.

Clint turned around and put his back against the door. Coulson was sitting calmly on the edge of the weightlifting bench, feet shoulder width apart, hands on his knees. He looked so like himself that Clint felt almost like smiling. He scowled instead and crossed his arms before sliding down against the door until he was sitting on the floor with his knees bent up against his chest. He knew it was a defensive posture, but he didn't care.

"Agent Barton. We seem to keep missing each other lately." Ah. Coulson wasn't just going to wait him out then. What was his game?

"You seem remarkably calm for someone locked in a gym, sir. I take it you were in on this?"

"And if I was?"

"I'd ask why."

"Clint..." and Clint flinched, smacking the back of his head on the door. He immediately hated himself for it, but then Coulson was at his side. He had a hand on the back of Clint's head in less time than it took to blink.

"I'm fine," Clint pulled away. Well, scrambled away would be more honest. Because if he didn't, he'd have leaned into Phil's touch and that was worse than losing a little dignity.

"My apologies, Agent Barton." Clint looked up and saw Phil crouching next to the door, one hand still outstretched.

"No. Fuck. Phil, I'm messing this all up!" Coulson's turn to flinch.

"Come and sit down. We need to talk. Properly." He held a hand out to Clint, and after a moment, Clint took it.

* * *

They went to a gymnastics bench near the wall and sat down, shoulders pressed together.

This time, Coulson just let the silence stretch out until Clint just had to speak.

"You died."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You _died,_ Phil. You aren't allowed to do that."

"I didn't intend to die, I assure you."

"I saw the tapes. You did intend to die. _They needed something to avenge_. Jesus, Phil."

"You were never supposed to see that. None of you were supposed to see that. And I'm still mad at Nick for the stunt with the cards."

"It worked, if that's any consolation. We teamed up. We saved the world. And I was their enemy ten minutes earlier."

Clint tried to make it sound like a joke, but Phil had always been able to see through Clint's bullshit. It was one of the reasons they were friends.

"It wasn't your fault. You know that, right?"

"I've spent the last three months trying to convince myself of that. Not sure how successful I was."

"Agent Barton." And that was the Agent Coulson voice, and every single part of Clint sat up and took notice.

"Yes, sir?"

"Anything that happened while you were under Loki's control was not your fault. You are to stop blaming yourself, and that is an order." And just like that, all the tension in Clint's body let go.

He started to cry.

Phil's hand wrapped around the back of his neck, warm and real and comforting. He pulled Clint down until his head was resting against Phil's chest. Clint could hear his heartbeat. He was alive. Oh, God. Phil was alive.

"I've got you, Agent." Phil's breath was warm and slightly damp on his cheek and his voice was solid and reassuring in his ear. That's what he'd missed most, Phil's voice in his ear. He hadn't felt really whole on Ops whenever he heard Sitwell's voice on the comm.

And yeah, they still needed to talk. They both had a lot of issues to work out. Like the fact that Clint was head over fucking heels in love with his handler. Or that Phil might never be able to return to the field. Or that things happened when Clint was 'working' for Loki that he hadn't told anyone yet. Things that Phil would need to know at some point. Things that Clint might actually be able to talk about with Phil.

But for now? It was enough.

* * *

**Yes, the title is a Buffy reference. Because I can.**


End file.
